War Drums
by Cyber 14
Summary: It seemed like an ordinary job to Detective Charles "Chet" Heywood. But he will soon find out that sometimes things don't always turn out the way you expect them to, and old friends can show up in the strangest of places. R&R Please. Updated.
1. Trailer

This is a trailer for a story I am currently writing for school. This story had been on the back burner until a few weeks ago, when I found out about the assignment, which gave me the excuse to dust off the idea and write it. The full story should be in no later then January 18th, when the assignment is due.

Many parts of this story actually came to me in a dream one night, including the basic situation and several of the characters. Yes, I even write in my sleep.

Regular text is dialogue, bold are shots, and bold italics are musical accompaniment.

Anyway, on to the trailer.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Voice, slight drawl: "Y'know, all my life I've served this Imperium, always tried to do the right thing. Tried to… make a difference, y'know, even a little one."

**Shot of a ransacked office complex. Papers litter the floor and desks are overturned.**

Man: "Last night our New Vistian planetary offices were broken into. We don't know what exactly's been taken yet, but we've pulled every off duty Shadow Front operative on planet to find out."

Man 2, sitting in what appears to be a submarine: "Woohoo, someone's gonna be in trouble tonight."

Fast cut shots of a battle in an underwater structure. A man is hit and falls to the ground.

Military officer: "Detective Heywood. We need you go to Blackfield and finish this fight. You have your orders."

Detective Charles Heywood: "Hoorah."

Cut of a shot of a city. Sky is cloudy and dull.

Man: "Welcome to Blackfield, detective. We hope your stay here is…productive."

Detective Heywood: "Ohh it will be."

A hand is shown inserting a magazine into a handgun. Detective Heywood, tall and brown haired, reclines in a desk chair.

Detective Heywood: "So, what do we know?"

Woman: "We think they're planning something big. They risked everything in that break in."

Heywood: "That's a start."

Cut to a shot of a two story mall in the edge of a city.

Radio dispatcher, fading in: "6.4, 6.4 calling all units. We have reports of shots fired. I repeat shots fired at Atwood Plaza mall."

A man enters Detective Heywood's office.

Man: "Detective, we have a situation."

_Lay your head down child  
I won't let the boogeymen come_

Shot of SWAT team approaching mall. Cut to shot of large-scale firefight in food court.

Soldier, in cover, holding a handgun: "Y'ever have one of those days where you wish you would have stayed in bed?"

_Count their bodies like sheep  
To the rhythm of the war drums_

Team advances up mall corridor. Cut to Detective Heywood, all by himself. He turns around. A tall albino man with piercing violet eyes, wearing a long black coat, a bulletproof vest, and urban camouflage pants strides up the concourse.

Heywood: "Clay?"

Clay (slightly drawling voice): "Thought I'd find you here."

Heywood: "What's going on?"

Clay: "Wouldn't we all like to know that sometimes?"

Blackout.

Close up of Clay talking to someone off screen, indeterminate location.

Clay: "There's never gonna be peace in this world. Not until the end of time. It just doesn't work. We pass the peace pipe. They beat the war drums. It's that simple. All you can do is try to help as many as you can, wherever you can."

_Pay no mind to the rabble  
Pay no mind to the rabble  
Head down, go to sleep  
To the rhythm of the war drums_

Sound of a bolt being racked.

Silence

War Drums, by Cyber 14. Coming soon.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

So, what do you think? The full story should be along in a little while.

The lyrics are from the song "Pet" by A Perfect Circle, which partially inspired the story.

Oh, and before I get tons of hate mail about seemingly succumbing to the "Evil Albino" stereotype with the albinistic Clay. Let me say that he plays a vital and pivotal role in the story and that he will be portrayed sympathetically and not at all stereotypically. Giving away any more info would ruin the story but I can safely say that he will not be an "evil albino" It's a terrible stereotype, just like the stereotype of Wisconsinites being fat, beer-swilling slobs. (I myself am from, and live in, Wisconsin, and I am well familiar with the stereotype.) I have several albinistic friends, and they're no different from other people. However, the albino bias is far from dead; take Silas from the Da Vinci Code, or the Nightcrawler mercenary force leader from the newest F.E.A.R. expansion "Perseus Mandate"; both albinos, and both evil. (However, I thought that the albino merc from Perseus Mandate was cool. He has SloMo abilities like your character has, and is the only traditional "boss" character in any F.E.A.R. game to date.)

(In the original dream that inspired this, the man who inspired Clay _was_ an evil albino, and was killed in the end of the dream. (Sam Fisher and I shot him while he was trying to escape through an air duct above a clothing store dressing room) I'd just read about the Da Vinci Code and it's character Silas, which is probably where the dream came from.)


	2. War Drums

This story was actually inspired by a dream that I had on September 17th 2007

This story was actually inspired by a dream that I had on September 17th 2007. It required a bit of changing making it logical in a story, but it's mostly the same, with events fleshed out a bit. The character of Cole Clay actually originated in the dream and I'm glad I did. He's really a gift of a character and I'm looking foreword to doing more with him in the future.

Anyway. I actually wrote this for a school assignment for IQ Academies online school, the assignment finally giving me an excuse to put my other projects on hold and dust this story off. So without further ado, here it is.

Glossary of terms: (For the teacher's benefit, as I assumed she'd never heard of 40k before, but I'll leave it in here for the sake of the uninitiated amongst us.)

Hand Vox: a cell phone.

Cogitator: basically a modern computer.

The Warp: an alternate dimension composed of pure thought. Psykers draw their power from this dimension and faster than light travel is possible within it.

Servitor: a cyborg servant, which can be programmed for various tasks. Different levels of intelligence exist, from "monotask" cleaning or loading servitors all the way up to self-aware combat or maid servitors. A human brain is the center of a servitor, as Artificial Intelligence is illegal, after devastating wars between man and sentient machine in the distant past, a la Dune. However, most are more akin to mindless robot drones then anything else.

Vitrian Glass clothing: clothing consisting of tiny pieces of volcanic glass sewn onto a base material. Has thermal and electrical insulating properties, as well as the ability, to a certain degree, to disperse directed energy weapons.

Downstack/Upstack: terms referring to levels in a "stacked" city, one in which buildings are stacked on top of one another, a la Coruscant or the cities from the game Beam Breakers.

Hive City: a large, usually stacked, city that is so large and well defined, that it is considered an independent political entity or nation in itself, a "Hive" as it were. This distinguishes it from other large cities, which are usually either part of a province or country.

Lasgun: a directed energy weapon, essentially a laser gun, somewhat like a blaster from Star Wars.

Adeptus Mechanicus: otherwise known as the "Tech Priests of Mars" this strange religious organization reveres technology and holds the monopoly on manufacturing processes and technological research in the Imperium.

Ommessiah: The supreme god of technology in the Adeptus Mechanicus's religion.

Iho Stick: basically a modern cigarette.

Adeptus Arbites: the interplanetary police force of the Imperium, akin to federal police today.

Autopistol: Basically a modern machine pistol, although apparently able to be fired one-handed, unlike today's, which are hard to control even with two hands.

Pict Set: a television set.

Hololith: a holographic projector or projection.

Personal Transport: essentially a modern car.

Pound Music (and self-invented variants of the name): a blanket term for modern music, usually with a synthetic edge, a la Massive Attack, or dance club music.

Gangbeat (my own term): hip hop-style music.

Caffeine: a blanket term for any number of coffee-like drinks served across the Imperium.

Dataslate: an electronic handheld data-storage device, similar in function and appearance to a PDA.

Plastisteel: This polymer-based building material can be clear.

Rockcrete: another name for concrete.

……………………………………………………….

Dawn was breaking, warm and bright, over the tropical islands of the planet New Vista. The sunlight glinted off of the sea surface and gently illuminated the dull tan buildings of the rockcrete spaceport, which was set in the center of a wide sand peninsula, making them appear to glow with a vibrant internal light.

Detective Charles "Chet" Heywood was immensely relieved. The terrorist cell that they had been tracking for six weeks had almost been wiped out.

Everything was ready for departure. Detective Heywood received clearance from the dock master and his cutter, a sleek gray hoverjet that shone orange in the morning light, rose into the air. They were headed for orbit, and passage to the planet Blackfield. They had a mission to finish.

Earlier that year the New Vistian Shadow Front offices in Krystone City, the planetary capital, had been broken into and several important documents had been stolen. No details of what exactly was taken were released, as the information was too sensitive for general organization circulation, but Heywood had a feeling that they had been pretty important, as all off-duty Shadow Front operatives on-planet had been reassigned to find the perpetrators and recover these stolen documents.

The Shadow Front, in a nutshell, was an Imperium-wide spying PMC, or Private Military Company. It undertook contracts with the Imperial government and private groups alike. Shadow Front operatives or "Detectives" were some of the most skilled spies, stealthers, and detectives in the entire Imperium. They were given broad legal protection and coverage in regards to carrying weapons and tracking down fugitives, as they received funding from the Administratum for certain expenses in return for keeping its nose (relatively) clean. Unless explicitly stated in a particular contract, any and all means necessary, within reason, were open to a Shadow Front detective to accomplish his mission. Therefore, the perpetrators of this rather amateur break in had been traced quite easily.

The suspects had been tracked to an estate on the edge of New Penance, an underwater city built along the sea bottom, the watertight buildings connected by Plastisteel tunnels out of which the glistening expanse of the sea could be seen.

-Flashback- Operation: Deep Vigilant

Heywood gazed out of the transparent front window of the submarine as they approached the New Penance estate. It sat in a crater on the sea-bottom; it's lights twinkling up at the approaching craft and giving the crater the appearance of a giant eye, staring blindly up at them from the ocean floor.

"_Isn't that something Chet?" remarked Jacob Coylin, a fellow Shadow Front detective. to Heywood's left, the words coming out in his usual brisk, clipped tones. He was a tall man with a thin face and wide, staring blue eyes that seemed to look right through Heywood as he sat in the vacant copilot's seat, studying the sea outside. Coylin was wearing an expensive Vitrian Glass coat and combat boots that clinked as he moved, much like chain mail. The coat was dark blue and was a self-purchased variation of the standard issue leather stormcoat that Heywood was wearing. Being based on the Shadow Front stormcoat, the coat was designed with many internal pockets for carrying weapons, ammunition, and other pieces of equipment. Coylin had several and fancied himself as a collector._

"_Yeah, Quite something, Jake," Heywood replied as Coylin seated himself in a bucket seat along the matte-gray wall, tinged with green from the water-reflected sunlight seeping in from outside, "Say, why don't we stop in and say hi?"_

"_Why don't we?" Jake replied, unholstering his autopistol, a sleek .38 caliber Fulcrum Arms Model 5, and racking the slide with a Cra-Ching, "They look like they could use some company,"_

End Flashback

Heywood stood up from the little table on the upper deck of his cutter and stretched his arms. He could still feel the vibrations of atmospheric turbulence, which meant they hadn't reached orbit yet. He looked around at the cramped foreword cabin. The ship was standard Shadow Front issue; a small, non-warp-drive equipped craft; a Valynk Shipyards "Whisper" pattern cutter to be precise. It was designed for intra-system travel and lacked long range flight capability. Operatives usually docked with commercial or military vessels for intersystem travel.

He had just finished reading the official Operation Deep Vigilant report; a dull, methodical breakdown of the operation that read like it was written by a verbally challenged and none-too-creative grade-schooler. It provided absolutely no detail whatsoever, just blatant, boring facts.

More detail, however, was given in Detective Coylin's report. Coylin had given the report directly to Heywood as Chet prepared to board his cutter, to pass on to the higher-ups when he reached Blackfield. Data discovered on the estate's central cogitator hub had indicated some sort of splinter group currently active on Blackfield. Heywood had been tasked with bringing the data to Blackfield, and assisting in this destruction of the terrorist cell.

Detective Coylin's report read like a novel. Keen on observation and good with words, Jacob "Holy" Coylin's reports were always interesting reads. Only Detective Harashima, a stocky Halikarian detective whom Heywood had met on Solarikus the year before, and who had, after submitting them, turned his reports into Haikus, was more creative in Heywood's opinion. Coylin had had received the nickname "Holy" after defending a church against heavily armed gangs during the downstack gang wars on Elektra Primus years back. That report had been one of his classics, and had secured him his place in the unofficial Shadow Front hall of fame.

Heywood walked down the narrow hall to the cockpit of his cutter. His pilot servitor "Bob" was calmly guiding the ship out of New Vista's atmosphere. They were headed for a specifically registered orbital dry-dock structure for use by Arbites and Shadow front operatives.

The cutter was set in a holding pattern to dock with a ship set at the farthest anchor. It was a large, rather boxy-looking ship decked out in a dark copper color. Refueling tubes and servitor gangways stretched from the massive dock out to the side of the ship, like life-support tubes, while tiny unmanned _Maintenance_ shuttles flew like bees around the massive engine cones and coupling relays. This ship was Heywood's, a gift from the luxury-liner company Starlight Travel, in gratitude for saving the life of the company's CEO and owner on the planet Elektra Primus several years before. This made Heywood one of only a handful of Shadow Front operatives to own his own personal, warp-drive equipped craft.

The cutter eased itself into the larger ship's rear docking bay, clattering as it locked into the support couplings lining the floor, finally settling with an almighty jolt that shook the whole cutter. It joined a myriad of other small craft; several escape lifeboats, an old, battered combat fighter, old enough to be a collectors item but still in good order and combat ready, and a civilian flyer, looking, as usual, like a cross between a ground-car and a hoverjet, it's body painted a sleek chrome gray. This particular craft was not airtight, and was transported planetside by Heywood's cutter. Nevertheless, it was useful for transversing the towering up-stacks of some of the Imperium's larger stack-cities.

Heywood exited his cutter and stepped out into the glow of the bay's floodlamps. He ordered several idling monotask servitors to clamp down and secure the cutter for warp travel, and headed from the bay.

He headed down the arterial passageway that led from the hanger, lit by wall-mounted glow-panels set into the wall at intervals. He stopped about halfway along it and chimed for a lift, which clattered to a halt and allowed him to enter. He rode the elevator up fifteen levels and stepped off into his personal quarters deck. No crewman was allowed in without invitation except in emergencies. Even the cleaning servitors didn't enter except when requested. The hall that he stepped into was tall, lit with cool white wall-bulbs and furnished in green-white drywall, interspersed with north Blackfieldian darkwood beams arranged along the walls and ceiling, and brought from Heywood's home state on Blackfield to furnish his quarters.

Heywood continued down the hall and entered his office, or rather, entered the large lounge adjacent to it. It was furnished similarly, with green-white drywall and darkwood accents as before. A black Usherian marble fireplace sat to Heywood's right, shining like glass in the apartment's cool light. Slate gray carpet covered the floor and a large tank lined the far wall. It wasn't a "tank" in the traditional sense. It was actually lined with hololith display consoles hidden out of sight along the bottom, which projected images of various tropical fish into the "water". Heywood had bought it because it was 'all the beauty and none of the mess' of an actual fish tank. It could also be set to project various other images and scenes as well.

Heywood turned to his left and entered his office proper. He sat at his desk and woke up his cogitator, which sat among the ever-growing piles of papers and dataslates that covered every inch of the desk's surface. After the data engine chattered to life, Chet scanned through his ship's diagnostic files and was informed that they were about to disembark. Satisfied, Heywood stood up and made to leave. As he headed back through the door to the lounge, he stopped to survey his appearance in a wall-mounted mirror. A tall man with a long, oval-shaped face and long brown hair stared back at him, with thin, analyzing eyes that shone a dull blue-gray. Upon closer examination, the image was in need of a shave as well. Thinking to himself that he'd get to it later, Chet turned and left the office.

Five minutes later and nine floors below, Heywood entered the ship's armory. It was a large room, with a bare concrete floor and similar concrete walls. It had the air of a basement or a machine shop, with cold gray walls and bare, skeletal florescent lamps. A firing range extended from the left wall, with various paper and holographic targets arranged down along it. Gun racks lined the walls, holding everything from Torlan Model 8 .40 caliber autopistols to a Caltani Military Manufacturing "Hellgate" pattern lasgun. Heywood's gun cleaning servitor 'Naomi" was standing at one of the racks, single-mindedly applying gun-oil to a partially disassembled Spectre SAP12 auto shotgun. She didn't react as Heywood entered.

Chet walked over to his main gun-cleaning station and sat down. A .37 caliber bullpup battle rifle with a digital ammunition counter sat in the center of the table, surrounded by various cleaning utensils and rags. It was a good gun; a Marduk Arms BR1 battle rifle. He had instructed Naomi to clean it while he was gone, as the bolt had become sticky somehow. She had apparently fixed the problem, upon Heywood's examination.

"Thanks Naomi," he called back at the servitor. It didn't respond and Heywood didn't expect it to. This particular cleaning servitor was a cheap, personality-less machine with a one-track-mind; to keep every gun in this room in peak working order.

Satisfied, he moved the weapon aside and unholstered his sidearm, a Lachrymosa XCP 9mm handgun. He had carried it during the op planetside, but hadn't needed it. He removed the magazine and ejected the chambered round. Setting it aside, he reached into his leather coat and pulled out a few extra magazines, a pocket medical kit, his hand vox, and an aura spectrometer. This last device was very useful. An aura spectrometer detected and displayed auras; the electromagnetic fingerprint on the warp that a person's recent presence left behind. It resembled a UV light, showing the auras as bright, dancing blotches of psychic energy as the machine revealed them. It could also be set to act as a sniffer, and pick up on a specific aural signature within a certain range. This device was very useful in all types of situations, from tracking jobs to forensic work to paranormal investigations. He set it aside, however. There was no use carrying it around now. He had a long voyage ahead of him.

Heywood felt the reverberating shudder that meant they had disengaged from dry-dock, and the reassuring vibration of the deck that signaled they were heading out of system. They were going home.

………

Three weeks of warp travel later, the ship reentered realspace at the edge of the system. Three days of sublight travel later, and they were in orbit. The planet Blackfield was an important manufacturing center, and an important trading one as well. Traders from all over the subsector flocked to the port of Atwood City, or else the island trading center of Mount Rodentia, to buy and sell items and goods from all over the Imperium, and certainly to buy Blackfieldian cars, pict sets, and heavy industrial machinery. (North Blackfieldian waste furnaces were the envy of the subsector.) Blackfield also happened to be Heywood's home. He'd been born and raised in the thick forests of Northern Blackfield all his life, and a chance to return home was always welcome.

Heywood was transported planetside in his cutter. His instructions were to first bring the mission data to a contact in Atwood City. His cutter joined a small trickle of other small craft journeying down to the bustling port city's markets. There weren't many crafts this morning. It was the trading off-season and business wouldn't pick up again until sometime next season.

Heywood docked his cutter at a commercial ship port hanger and secured a refuel and long residency permit. After filling out the necessary paperwork, Chet walked to the rear loading hatch of his ship and keyed the "open" code. The rear hatch descended and Heywood entered the cargo compartment of the cutter. It was a cramped space; filled with boxes of dried food, coolers of perishables, and boxes of technical and emergency equipment. It also contained one other item; Heywood's personal transport.

The Valini Spirit Coupe was an elegant car; with a low sitting cab that rose to a sleek trapezoidal roof, and a long, angular body bedecked with angular vents and a rear spoiler that gave the car the appearance of a large, square, aquamarine-painted insect.

Heywood backed the sleek car out of the hatchway, and, after sealing and locking down the ship he proceeded for the street.

Heywood's instructions were to meet a contact in a bar not far from the docking structure. He was to proceed there immediately and deliver the data. Shadow Front meetings seemed to always take place in bars, clubs, or restaurants, Heywood thought. It was a practice born of necessity. A loud bar or nightclub could conceal discussions and meetings quite well, due to the loud music and equally loud background chatter.

Chet reached down and keyed the car radio. _"Good morning, Atwood City,"_the DJ exclaimed, _"For your weather today on this dreary midweek morning we have the same thick, low cloud cover and a high of 61 degrees continuing on the end of the month. Bummer. But enough of the cold, here's a steaming hot new single from Magnum Flinch, an Atwood G radio exclusive. Represent, Blackfield, and, as always, keep it locked in Atwood G radio; all the best and all the newest gangbeat and pound music you love, all in one place. Tell your friends, Atwood. Peace, out!"_The song started; a pounding gangbeat track accented with an accompanying twanging guitar. _"Great,"_ Heywood thought, _"It's gonna stay this cold and dreary for a while."_

Heywood followed a side ramp down through an opening into the bowels of the city. He was under the streets now, looking at the basement openings of the skyscrapers above. Sodium-vapor lamps cast the whole sub-street into an eerie orange glow while rodents skittered among the litter that caked the cold rockcrete roads. He continued on for some time until he found it; a small, run down bar tucked into an alcove in the gray wall. A large neon sign above it read: The Horse's Mouth.

Heywood drove on a few blocks to a secure parking garage and boarded his vehicle there. Leaving the car in a regular parking lot in a neighborhood like this wouldn't be such a good idea, Heywood reasoned. After lodging the car, he proceeded back to the bar.

The interior was large and dim, with various framed newspapers and other paraphernalia lining the walls. This particular bar had a rich history, and it was proud of it. The bar was in the center; an oval shaped counter with numerous stools arranged around it. Two waiters in white chef's smocks lazed behind it. Besides themselves and Heywood, the bar appeared deserted.

"Hello sir. What can I get you?" one of them asked, straightening up and addressing Heywood.

"Nothing right now, thanks," Heywood answered them, "Hey, is there anyone else in here? I was supposed to meet someone here, an old friend,"

"There's a man back there in the private booths," one of them replied, gesturing to a second room leading off of the main area, "Might be your guy,"

"Thanks," Heywood replied, heading for the booths.

At first glance, the booths appeared to be empty. But upon further inspection, Heywood spotted a tall, dark man of apparently New Vistian ethnicity leaning back in one of the far booths. His name was Mitchell Parker and he was Heywood's contact.

Heywood approached him and sat down. "How's mother?" he asked.

"Doing very well," he replied. His accent was a thick south New Vistian islander dialect, drawling and aristocratic.

'As I assumed she would be," Heywood replied, completing the code greeting, "How ya doing, Mitch. Old Volly still givin' you hell?"

"Nope. He got promoted. I've got a new coffee boy now. Name's Krellson. Smart kid, but he always forgets that I like sugar, not cream, in my brew,"

"Hey," Chet said with a laugh, "You're supposed to be teaching your trainee our methods, not having them to wait on you and bring you coffee. That's not what they're there for."

"Hey, learning how to properly prepare caffeine-based beverages is a time-honored and noble Shadow Front tradition. What if he has to impersonate a waiter, and instead of "Get me a cup of caffeine", he gets something more specific, like "Get me a cup of south Darkgrovian Schwarzkaffee with Solarikan cinnamon table sugar"? Then he'll thank me for being specific about my caffeine order. Then he'll thank me."

"Okay, okay. I get it. Now, on to the reason I've been sitting on my backside and watching taped _Arbites Declassified_ reruns on my ship for close to a month now; the op data," Heywood produced the dataslate and passed it across to Parker, who picked it up and slipped it into a pocket. He wasn't wearing the usual leather coat, but a sharp blue button-down shirt and a darker blue blazer cut wide in the shoulders, no doubt to conceal the distinctive bulge of a shoulder holster.

"Well, now that we've gotten that taken care of," Heywood said, standing up and making to leave, "I really should go check in down at headquarters. They're probably expecting me,"

"Naw," Parker implored, "Stay and have a drink. We've got time. I didn't tell them I'd be back for another two hours. Didn't know when you'd be getting here, so I told 'em I'd be back by one."

"Ehh, one drink. I'm off duty," Heywood replied.

The next twenty minutes were spent swapping stories of the various exploits each man had undertaken since they had last seen each other, Heywood telling of a particularly interesting weapons smuggling bust on Null Gala IV, and Parker telling of a bomb scare in the planetary capitol building in which the entire senate had to be evacuated during a speech by the President and the Planetary Governor on the rising costs of Varcasian jewelry imports. All the while, Heywood and Parker nursed bottles of cheap Perspektywan beer while listening to the Usherian Deathpound band Bloodshot's greatest hits album entitled "A Shot in the Dark, Fifteen years of Bloodshot", which the barmen, obviously bored by the relative lack of business, had started to play on the jukebox.

Eventually, though, they got up and waived for the check. A tall, dark-haired man in a chef's jacket presented it to them. He had dark hair, tanned skin, and sharp, piercing purple eyes. Heywood hadn't seen him when he first came in, but assumed that he must have been in the kitchen, judging by his attire.

"Total comes to seven fifty even, sir. Have a good day," he said as he totaled up the drinks. His voice was smooth, cold, and accentless.

As he walked off, Heywood looked after him.

"Was that…no," he muttered.

"What?" Parker asked.

"Nothing. He just looked like someone I know. But it couldn't be him. Never mind,"

They headed from the bar. As they stepped out into the amber-lit exterior of the pub, Heywood turned to Mitch. "You got a ride?" he asked.

"Nope, walked here. Figure I'll walk back, get some fresh air,' Parker replied, taking a deep breath of the exhaust fume heavy air.

"I'll give you a ride. My car's just down the street," Chet offered.

"I think I'll take you up on that. Getting cold anyway,"

"What? Cold? For us northerners, this is warm weather, practically summer weather around here."

"Yeah, well I grew up in a place where it never got colder then forty degrees on the coldest of winter nights. So you'll forgive me for thinking this weather is cold," Parker replied, "So, where's the car?"

"This way," Heywood replied, gesturing down the street-tunnel towards the parking structure.

Ten minutes later, Heywood's coupe eased itself into yet another underground parking garage, this time under the Shadow Front local offices. The pair got out and headed toward an elevator, which deposited them in a large atrium which rose twelve stories to a glass-paneled ceiling which let in the dreary clouds and, somehow, the incessant chill, despite the fact that the heating system was active and running fine. Catwalks led off of these twelve stories and allowed access to offices, temporary, hotel room-like housing, and other such things. The pair continued on for a smaller atrium, off to the left of the main entrance and accessible through a set of double glass doors. This smaller atrium rose only three stories, and several large, single-pane, one-way windows blanketed the wall facing the street.

"Wow," Chet commented as they entered the massive room, "I've never been in the addition before. Turned out nice."

"Yep. It's just been opened. It's not quite finished, but its done enough that we can start moving in," Parker replied.

Both men walked toward the reception desk, where a tall, thin woman in late middle age with dyed-black hair was sitting.

"Officer Mitchell Parker reporting with Officer Charles Heywood," Parker addressed the receptionist, who looked up and smiled at them.

"Ahh, Detective Parker, Detective Heywood. Take the elevator to the third floor. It's the third door on your left," she replied, in a high-pitched, honey sweet voice that all receptionists were seemingly required to have.

"Thanks," Mitch replied, and the two detectives headed for the elevator.

They exited the elevator on the third floor and entered the third room on the left, which turned out to be a conference room, with a large darkwood table and a wall of one-way windows, similar to those in the lobby.

"Detectives Parker and Heywood reporting," Mitch called, and a huddle of figures that had been studying a mass of papers and dataslates at the far end of the table turned to face them.

"Ahh, ahh, good. Sit down. Sit down. We've been waiting for you. Have you got the data?" a squat, grizzled man in his late one-eighties asked. Heywood knew the man, his name was Marshal Viktor Muril, a representative of the Blackfield wing of the Adeptus Arbites.

"Right here," Parker replied, pulling the dataslate from his pocket and sliding it down the table to the marshal. Muril studied the documents for a moment and then waved the two to sit. He gestured around at the figures sitting around him.

"I assume you know Detective Maci?" Muril asked, gesturing at a tall, wiry man with a gaunt face and tanned skin, which was slowly being drained of its tan by the incessantly cloudy light drifting in from outside. His name was Detective Chuck Maci, otherwise known by his mouthful of a military rank of Ground Chief Master Sergeant. He nodded as he was addressed.

"And I _know_ you know Detective Vojtech," Muril continued, gesturing to a man sitting next to Maci, with a lined, deeply scarred face and short colorless hair. Heywood did know him. Few could see it directly, but Liam Vojtech was probably more augmetics than man, having had many of his limbs and other body parts replaced by robotic prosthetics in his very long and illustrious career.

"Hey Chet, Mitch," he said, raising a hand in the pair's direction. His voice possessed a slightly mechanical, metallic quality, due to the augmetic larynx that was embedded in his throat.

"Well, now that we all know each other, lets get down to business," Muril said.

The next half hour was spent going over the Operation Deep Vigilant case report, as well as looking at what Intel had been gathered in the meantime on the terrorist cell. Very little was gleaned, however, as little could be found about any of the men IDd from the New Vistian estate. Eventually, Muril raised a suggestion.

"Chet, why don't you and Maci run down to containment and get something for us. It's a suitcase with physical records of every ship that's landed here from New Vista in the last twelve months. I had it brought here yesterday. Run down and bring it up here, will you?"

The pair exited the boardroom and headed for the elevator. They got off on the ground floor and headed for an armored elevator marked "Containment", guarded by two gun servitors with arm-mounted light autocannons. After presenting their ID, both men took the lift down to the containment floor, a large, open room with numerous grate-walled sub-rooms containing tottering shelves of papers, dataslates, disks, and files. There was also a large open area at the far end which sported a cargo lift, meant for impounding vehicles. This area was occupied. The pair went over to investigate.

They approached it to see a heavyset man with a shaved head crouching down next to a pilot servitor, tinkering with its internal parts and checking them against a handheld analyzer. Nearby, a portable disc player was blasting out a haunting track by the Solarikan pound music band "Depths of Soul"

Heywood immediately recognized the man as Matthew Vinesmith, a gunship pilot with the Caltani 83rd Special Projects Division, an imperial special forces group. Specifically, he was a member of the 'War" Taskforce. War specialized in vehicular combat and insertion or extraction. There was also Fear, the main body of the group, Decay, which dealt with communications tampering, and Famine, which dealt with supply disruption and sapping.

"O.K. B6 to…left GP port. Set to route 16. See if that works," he muttered to himself.

Hearing the detectives' footsteps, Vinesmith looked up at them, a fluid, pinpoint precise motion born of years of the use of helmet-mounted auto-targeters. For a second, Heywood was under the distinct impression that he was being sighted in.

"Chet?" he said, gazing over the shoulder of the servitor at the pair, his voice heavy with a slow, drawling south Blackfieldian accent, "Chet Heywood. Long time no see. Where've you been? Heard rumors you were getting in today,"

"New Vista," Heywood replied.

"Ahh, great place. Great place. Beautiful sunsets. Nothing like it. So, what were you doing there." he said.

"That's classified at the moment. What are you doing _here_?" Heywood asked, gesturing at the servitor and the six others idling in a corner.

"Reprogramming these suckers. Some Omessiah's Chosen terrorists somehow got in and reprogrammed all your guys' pilot servitors. I was here for a piloting convention and one of your boys asked me if I'd do him a favor and fix some of his machines for him. This guy's a toughie. Been working on him all day and have gotten exactly nowhere. I have had it up to _here_ with this thing," he said, holding up his hand to the level of his throat, "This is the last batch though,"

He stood up and attempted to remove a socket wrench that was clasped resolutely in the servitor's hand. It wouldn't budge.

"Ohh, yeah. That's great. Yeah, do that. Do that," he said sarcastically, "Come on. Give it to me. Give it!"

Instead of giving it, the servitor raised its arm and cracked Matthew over the head with the wrench, sending him sprawling. Bleeding from a nasty gash across his ear, Vinesmith rose to his feet, reached for his belt, and drew his sidearm, a locally made Spectre Darkside .45 cal. Five shots echoed throughout the confined space. The servitor convulsed and crumpled.

"Whoa, Whoa, you didn't need to shoot it!" Heywood yelled, his ears ringing.

"Actually, I did," Matt said, dabbing at his ear with a rag, "My orders were that if any of these things show any hostility to Imperial personnel, that I should put them down. Never underestimate the Omessiah's Chosen. I've seen them do some pretty crazy things if given the opportunity, so I was told to shoot any who showed hostile intentions," he said, gesturing over his shoulder at a dumpster in a corner, which Heywood could see contained the bodies of at least three limp servitors, their limbs hanging loosely over the rim like discarded marionettes.

"Help me with this one, will you?" Matt asked, kneeling down and grasping the machine's shoulders. Together, Heywood, Maci, and Vinesmith carried the servitor over to the dumpster and tossed it in. It fell onto the others with a clatter.

"We should get back upstairs. We came down here for some records and we should get back. It was nice to see you, though," Heywood said, glancing around for the suitcase in question.

"Yeah, we should get together for a drink sometime. Catch up," Matt said.

"Be fun. I'll have to see when I've got time," Chet answered.

"You know where to find me," said Matt ruefully, glancing back at the six servitors still idling innocently in the corner.

"Want me to get you a medikit…or some power armor?" Heywood chuckled.

"No, I'll be fine. They just need a little lovin'," Matt replied, popping his handgun's clip and inserting a fresh one.

"See you," Heywood called as he headed down the concourse, to find the suitcase they'd been tasked with retrieving.

Eleven weeks later, they were at a dead end. All their leads had dried up and they had gotten nowhere.

Heywood reclined at his desk, feeling drained and exhausted. What happened next didn't help.

"Hello, detective," came a sharp, clipped voice to Heywood's left.

Heywood turned. There stood a tall man with dark hair, a very thin, angular face, and wide staring blue eyes. Jacob "Holy" Coylin stood in the doorway, wearing his bluish glass boots and a gray stormcoat that looked like it had been machined from rock dust.

"Holy Coylin," Heywood said, phrasing it like an incredulous curse and standing up, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to help. You boys've gotten nowhere so they called me up. Don't look so glad to see me. Please. You're embarrassing me," he replied sarcastically, entering the small office the Shadow Front had leant him at headquarters.

Office really wasn't the correct term. It was more of an alcove, a desk stuck at the end of a dead-end hallway near a nonfunctioning elevator. Weeks ago, the four detectives had drawn straws for the three remaining offices in the complex, and Heywood had come up short.

"Well, we need all the help we can get," Heywood sighed, "We've gotten exactly nowhere since I got here. We've got nothing."

"Ahh, shame. I've been on Solarikus, enjoying the simple pleasures of spotting forged signatures. Apparently, some dignitary or somesuch got a check for a luxury liner cruse that he never went on, among other things. So I've spent the last eight months or so staring at all sorts of different receipts, trying to discern if the fat old slob actually signed them. Personally, I think he was just trying to get out of paying for it all. But the good news is, I got this coat out of the deal," he said, gesturing at the grayish coat he was wearing, "Villite, a ceramic-based polymer that's quite bullet resistant. Apparently, it can stop a forty cal slug at ten feet. I know, the guy who sold it to me shot a servitor to prove…" he was cut off, however, by Detective Parker, who sprinted down the hallway and nearly slid into Detective Heywood's desk.

"We've got a problem," he said, righting himself and leaning on a support lattice of the one-way window that formed one wall, "a serious problem. Come with me,"

Two minutes later, they were down in the parking structure, heading for a row of armored cars idling at the ramp to the street.

"So you're saying that these terrorists just attacked Atwood Plaza mall? Just ran in and started shooting?"

"Yep, out of the blue, but apparently well planned. Apparently, they've taken hostages, but they haven't issued any demands or anything like that yet so we still don't know what their objective is. Could be our cell,"

"Might be," Heywood reasoned, "Seems a little risky, though. There must be something we aren't seeing,"

'Well," Parker said, "We'll be seeing it soon enough. We're accompanying Special Tactics in as they make the takedown. Only in an advisory role, though,"

"Advisory role," Heywood scoffed, "Honestly, what is that? When you're getting shot at, you're shooting back, not advising. This way," Heywood said, gesturing to his car, to which a box trailer was attached. He opened the trailer and perused the weapon racks inside.

"Alright, you told me police intel said they weren't wearing any body armor?" Heywood asked, picking up a Ragnarok Model 39 entry shotgun and hefting it.

Parker nodded, "Yep, fast and light. Which means we have the advantage. We got the area under lockdown, makes their evasiveness useless,"

"Not necessarily. They could still try to outmaneuver us in the mall itself, They have the advantage of knowing the location far better than we do. They could have set up barricades, firing positions, anything," Chet responded, spinning the cylinder of a Leone Combat Dynamics G20 revolver and holstering it.

"So hit them hard. Don't give 'em a chance to outmaneuver," Parker said, as Heywood slung a Kreigian-made Spezialkräfte Herstellung MP15 submachine gun over his shoulder.

"Yep," Heywood replied.

"Hey, is that the new Fulcrum 15?" Parker asked, pointing to a silver autopistol with a rubber grip that was reclining in a rack.

"It's not new, but yeah," Heywood said, pulling out the gleaming weapon and handing it to Parker, "Model's been around for a while,"

"I put in a requisition for one of these. You mind if I…" he trailed off, weighing the pistol in his hand.

"Just bring it back. I quite like that gun," Heywood said, passing Parker three extra magazines of hollowpoint .38 caliber slugs.

"Whatever you say," Parker replied, as they headed for the transports.

"Hey Detective," came a familiar drawling voice from down the concourse. Matthew Vinesmith jogged over and waved to them. "Your commander says I'm to fly you to the site. Says you're 'Special Cargo' Come on,"

"Right," Heywood replied, looking around for Detective Coylin, who had gone on ahead, "Jake!"

"Right here. Don't need to yell," came Coylin's terse voice from three feet to their right.

"Ahh, good," said Chet, 'Let's go,"

They headed up to the roof of the parking structure, where numerous gunships and flyers sat waiting. They headed for the one at the farthest pad; a sleek, gunmetal gray craft with wing-mounted 20mm autocannons and a nose-mounted lascannon. Matthew dropped the ramp and they clambered aboard, Matt heading for the cockpit and the rest dropping into various bucket seats around the cramped cabin. Heywood settled himself into a seat near a large chart table, on which rested some ship diagnostic printouts, a half-eaten and rolled up bag of potato chips, a copy of a popular tactical cogitator game, and an SKH SCP .40 caliber handgun, the slide open and a cleaning brush beside it.

"Just slide all those loose things into a drawer, will ya? Don't want them sliding around," came Vinesmith's voice from the other end of the cabin, "I've been kinda living outta here for the past coupla months,"

"Didn't we give you a room?" Heywood asked, thinking of the numerous temporary quarters in the main complex.

"Yep, but I still work out of my ship a lot. Nice and convenient," Matt replied, running a systems check and powering up the hoverjet's engines, "Alright folks, this is your captain speaking. Welcome to gunship 2213 and we hope you enjoy your ride with us today. Just to let you know, this is a non-smoking military gunship. That means you, Coylin!"

"What? Oh yeah, pick on me," Coylin replied, offended.

"Please fasten your seatbelts and put your tray tables in their upright and locked positions. Failure to do so _can_ and _will_ result in serious bodily harm, and I do not want to be scrubbing the brains from your cracked skull off of my decking. So sit back, relax, and thank you for flying Air Vinesmith," Came Matthew's voice over the ship intercom. It was replaced almost immediately with a twangy pound track consisting of an occasional vocalist and extended electric guitar solos. With this as a backdrop, they rose into the air and took off.

No more then five minutes later, they touched down and assembled outside of the barricaded mall, the Special Tactics officers and Detectives all milling around a hololith projector mounted on the side of one of the armored vehicles. The fireteam leader waved them all into silence. He tapped the holographic map shimmering on the truck's armored hull.

"Okay, what we know. The terrorists crashed the birthday party for one of the most senior executives of Empire City Metallurgy. The exec, and about ten others were taken hostage at the Northern Cove gourmet restaurant at about ten thirty this morning. They aren't at that location any longer, however. The restaurant is very accessible and open. Instead, they are _here_," the leader continued, tapping the hololith board, which lit up and projected a holographic map of the Atwood Plaza mall in front of them. Several lights flashed at various places, indicating known hostage locations.

"The hostages are divided into several groups, and are being held in some of the most directly inaccessible areas of the mall," the officer said, indicating the flashing icons on the hololithic projection, "This isn't going to be a fast smash-and-grab scenario. These guys are smart. They've planned well,"

He continued, "These gentlemen," he said, gesturing at the three detectives standing to his right, "will be helping us out in an advisory capacity. They believe they've encountered this group before,"

"What are our rules of engagement, being in an advisory role?" Heywood asked.

"None. You're staying out here. You're to assist us with planning the mission and then you'll advise us over the mics once we go in,"

"Right," said Heywood.

The team made its final preparations and planning, and then headed out. Heywood wasn't sorry to be sitting this one out. These men were professionals, used to working together, and having to bring a newcomer along would most likely have hindered their precision and mobility. Heywood, Maci, and Coylin were instead tasked with supporting and advising the squads sent inside. Heywood's callsign was Rook Six, responding to Knight One. Two minutes after the team had set out, they radioed in.

"Everything's clear so far. Coming to a door. Leading out into a concourse; the food court," he relayed, "Flex-cam," he called to someone on the team, 'Looks clear," he said after a few seconds, "Move and clear, keep it quiet and watch those booths. They could be anywhere,"

The link clicked dead.

Suddenly, not thirty seconds later, multiple gunshots could be heard from inside the building. The link crackled to life.

"Rook Six this is Knight One. Come in, over," a man yelled, panicking, over the link.

"Knight One, this is Rook Six. What's your Sitrep, over?" Heywood asked into the link.

"They're everywhere! Just came outta nowhere and started shooting. Corlian's hit, oh Throne he's messed up. They've got armor piercing rounds. They've got AP rounds, Sarge!" he yelled to his team leader, "Ahh, Pexxiski! Golden Throne of God, he's hit. He's down. We're being overrun in here. We need backup and medical supplies! Lots of them, in here now! Anything you've got, and I mean RIGHT NOW! Anything!" the man sounded like he was close to hyperventilating. He sounded young, most likely just a rookie, and this wasn't a situation a SWAT officer saw everyday, a warzone on their own backyard.

"Roger that, Knight One. Med supplies are on the way," Heywood responded.

"Oh, thank you. Thank you. Ahh!" he started. Heywood could hear rounds impacting what appeared to be rockcrete over the link, "I'm pinned! Need help!" came the officer's desperate cry.

Dropping the line, Heywood sprinted to the back of each transport and gathered up the small field medical kits each contained. Stuffing these into his pockets, he ran for the mall, designating the radio operations to the other two detectives, with orders to call for backup, and be ready to move in and personally support if the need should arise.

Coming to the service entrance the team had used, Heywood made his way along it toward the team's stated position. He approached the door to the food court and opened it.

A warzone met his eyes. Knight One was holed up in various pieces of cover along the large, open food court. Masked, combat gear clad figures were firing from everywhere; from behind trash cans, around doorframes, from behind the counters of the numerous chain-restaurant booths lining the far wall of the plaza.

"Hey," Heywood called, gesturing to a group of men entrenched behind a garbage can kiosk, several wounded officers were also sheltering there, although enemy fire had already chipped and splintered the rockcrete sides of the construction, "Covering Fire,"

The officers obeyed, leaning out and pinning the nearest enemies down with a hail of fire from their Vector V9 SMGs and Spectre SAP 12 shotguns.

Heywood sprinted across the open and slid into cover beside an officer who was rapidly bleeding out from a nasty chest wound. Heywood unloaded the medical kits and the squad medics got to work, going through the motions of stabilizing and sewing up the large hole the armor piercing round had made in the man's vest and torso.

Heywood spun around and surveyed the scene. Now that he stopped and observed the situation closer, he could see that there were around twelve men entrenched at the far side of the room, firing at the officers with a plethora of weapons, most of them mid to long range rifles, defiantly not what Special Tactics had expected. Heywood could see the boxy outline of an Edelweiss C6 assault rifle being hefted by a man firing from a chain burger joint across the way. He could also hear the rattling, metallic report of a .37 cal Marduk Arms battle rifle on burst mode, its distinct sound rising above the general cacophony of the battle, _BLLEW BLLEW BLLEW_.

"Alright," Heywood turned and addressed the officers huddled behind the bins, "We can't stay here. We have to move. You and you," he said, gesturing at two officers holding 9mm V9s who had just slid in beside him, "Pick a target and don't let up until he's neutralized. You," Heywood pointed to an officer holding a Spectre shotgun, "Cover these medics. Make sure nobody tries to flank us,"

The man nodded and Heywood spun around to acquire a target. The firefight raged for three minutes, although it felt like much longer. At about the two minute mark, things were looking up. They were making progress in subduing the seemingly endless wall of fire that was coursing their way. Heywood had seen some pretty impressive shots as well. One of the two submachine gunners, Jenkins, whom Heywood learned had been the one who radioed their distress call, popped up and scored a clean, precise headshot on the C6 wielding terrorist Heywood had spotted earlier. He was firing at the time, and when hit, with his finger still pressing on the trigger, he had spun around and raked his comrades' lines with fire, taking out two men and wounding a third. That shot went down in precinct history.

However, not long after, things changed. A dull _Thuck Thuck Thuck _echoed throughout the hall, almost drowned out by the incessant sounds of combat. Luckily Heywood was reloading when he saw it, a small, round, olive drab ball, rolling past their defenses.

"Grenade!" he yelled. It detonated, throwing him on top one of the wounded officers, who yelled in pain.

"Fire back! Reengage!" Heywood yelled, pushing himself off of the wounded man and swinging up his rifle. Miraculously, he was uninjured from the blast, as were the other members of the team.

He was just about to fire back when another grenade rolled past, exploding and knocking him over with its concussive shockwave.

"Ahh, Twice. Twice!" Heywood yelled incredulously, as he picked himself up, unharmed, for a second time. As he sighted his weapon and peered around the edge of the kiosk, he saw the two remaining terrorists in the booths fall, cut down by the accurately placed shots of the Special Tactics officers.

However, Heywood also saw yet another terrorist sprinting along the concourse towards them, obviously trying to get the drop on the squad before they recovered, heedless of his loss of covering fire. He was holding a Marduk Arms battle rifle, apparently the one Heywood had heard earlier.

Heywood took aim and fired. His burst caught the man square in the chest. The terrorist toppled over, his finger slipping onto the trigger and sending a burst of rounds skyward, where they shattered several panes of the glass-windowed ceiling, the fragments raining down on him as though Heaven itself also wanted a hand in the man's demise. They tinkled as they hit the ground, echoing musically in the now silent hall.

"Is that all of them?" someone asked.

"Those were the last two that I saw," Jenkins replied, "Detective?"

"I think you're right," Heywood replied, "Alright, form up and evacuate the wounded. But be careful. We very well might be wrong."

The squad proceeded to form up and evac the wounded. Heywood looked down at his weapon. He popped the clip; empty. A chamber check also revealed that Heywood was out of ammo. Having no more magazines, Heywood shouldered the weapon and drew his two sidearms; a Lachrymosa XCP 9mm pistol and a Leone Combat Dynamics G20 .357 magnum revolver. The XCP also used 9mm, but it would be very time consuming to swap rounds from one set of magazines to another, as well as the fact that the 9 mil rounds that his MP15 had used were tailor-made for submachine guns, while his pistol's rounds were loaded with a lower powder charge, made specifically for handguns. They would work in the SMG, but they would be less effective.

Chet went over to the terrorist he had just killed and scooped up his battle rifle. Turning it over, he saw that the bolt was locked open and the ammunition counter read 00, empty. The shots the man fired must have been the last in his mag as well. It reminded Heywood of the gentlemen's duels of old, with crude flintlock pistols. One shot, no second chances. Heywood wondered briefly why the man wouldn't have checked his ammo before trying to flank them. It was easier on the Marduk BR1 then on many others, but he passed it off to the fear-induced oversight of an amateur. A search of the man's person revealed no more .37 cal magazines.

Handing his MP15 to one of the medics with orders to give it to one of the other two detectives, Heywood and the rest of the combat-ready members of Knight One continued into the mall. First, they searched the booths and the fallen enemies for ammo. Most of the terrorists, however, were using gene-coded weapons. Gene coding was an expensive add-on to a weapon given only by special request, in which the grip of the weapon was implanted with tiny biometric scanners that read a shooter's fingerprints. Only with the correct set of prints would the weapon fire. This told Heywood several things. Besides the fact that the scrounged weapons were useless, it also informed him that these terrorists had access to serious tech-kit, and most likely, a tech-priest to properly maintain it all. Sure enough, Heywood found a man in Redsand-colored fatigues, slumped over the counter of a pastry shop, sporting tattoos of the skull-cog logo of the Adeptus Mechanicus tech-priesthood.

Nevertheless, they continued on into the eerily silent mall. As they continued down the halls, passing clothing shops, salons, bookstores, and cafes, Heywood noticed how nothing seemed to be touched. Nothing appeared to have been looted; no jewelry from the jeweler's, no expensive china or sculptures from the gift shops, no vintage artwork from the art galleries. In Heywood's experience, terrorists had the distinct habit of stealing anything that wasn't nailed down in the places they took control of, either for personal gain or to pawn for quick cash after they escaped. This restraint, then, deeply perplexed Heywood. It was obvious that these weren't just some militant guerillas, taking hostages for personal gain.

They continued on for some time, meeting no one. Eventually they reached an intersection and half of the squad broke off. One group of hostages was one way, and the other was in the other direction.

Heywood followed the fireteam taking the right path, keeping his eyes open for any sign of the enemy, his XCP in one hand, his Leone revolver in the other.

Chet saw it happen, seemingly in slow motion. One minute lieutenant Kleggson was advancing alongside them, the next, he was swaying on the spot, headless. Heywood saw his black beret, apparently floating in midair, as though comically unaware of the disappearance of the skull on which it rested. It hovered in midair for a split second before it whispered silently down, bouncing on Kleggson's lifeless corpse and landing at his feet, seconds before his body fell heavily on top of it.

The team dived for cover. Bright lances of searing laser fire zipped up the hall towards them. Heywood dived behind a marble planter, las-fire sizzling through the air around him, and peered out from behind it to survey the stretch of mall concourse ahead, bringing up his revolver and scanning the hall. He distinctly saw the form of a sentry, armed with a team-portable lascannon, emplaced behind a bank of over-watered decorative plants ahead of them. Bolts of fire licked at them from its bipod-supported, fire-belching muzzle. They needed to silence this thing, and fast. The sentry hadn't seen Heywood yet. He was too busy raking the squad's position with the lascannon's scalding bolts.

Motioning for his team to stay in cover, he sighted his revolver at the man's partially exposed torso, steadied hiss breathing, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in Heywood's hand as the powerful .357 round erupted from the weapon's muzzle. It slammed into the terrorist right below the armpit. The man convulsed and fell dead, his gun clattering noisily to the marble floor. However, six more soldiers, obviously hearing the commotion, had come to investigate. The fight lasted just under a minute, in which time Heywood completely exhausted his supply of .357 magnum rounds. Eventually, he remarked as he holstered the empty weapon, he was going to run out of ammo completely.

They continued on until they reached the place that Intel informed them was the location of their group of hostages. The team stealthed foreword, not wanting to alert the terrorists inside of their presence. As the reached the door to the service corridor where they believed the hostages to be, they went over the plan once more. The special tactics squad was to enter and secure the hostages, while Heywood was to cover the doorway and deny entry to anyone attempting to enter.

The team entered and Heywood waited, covering the area with his 9mm. He had turned down the offer of a V9 from one of the troopers, reasoning that they would need it more. However, he had said that if he made contact, that he would radio in and one of the officers would return as backup.

However, not thirty seconds later, something happened, something that would set Heywood's plans on end. It came in the form of a man, a man in urban camouflage pants, a bulletproof vest, and a black Vitrian Glass stormcoat that clinked as he strode up the concourse to Heywood's right. He was tall and thin, yet fit and muscular, with a long, narrow, pale face, sporting the gaunt, chiseled look of a man who had devoted his life to combat work and guncraft. His platinum blonde hair was long and swept back, giving one the impression of a ghostly serpent, or else a pale white lion, prowling and ready for the kill. In fact, it was a combination of all of these features, so different, and yet so naturally represented in the man. His eyes were a bright violet, contrasting eerily with his pale features. They also seemed to shine unnaturally, maliciously, like they knew who you were, like they knew what you'd done.

Heywood knew this man. His name was Cole Clay, and he had been in the bounty hunting trade for ten decades.

Clay continued to stride up the concourse towards Heywood. He walked quickly, with long strides, but also seemed to possess a barely contained saunter, his Usherian reserve clashing with a gunslinger's swagger. He stopped near Heywood, eyeing him.

"Detective Heywood," Clay said, "I didn't expect to see you here," His voice was smooth, like flowing water, but it also possessed a hypnotizing Usherian drawl that was oddly threatening, but also made you want to agree with anything he had to say. It was an accent born of the massive, twisting caverns of the planetoid colony of Usher X, bred no doubt by businessmen negotiating mining rights, or else local traders, shrewdly trying to outwit their competitors.

"What…what's going on, Cole?" asked Heywood incredulously. He knew Clay. He was notoriously efficient and ruthless if the need arose, but kept to a code of honor, a rigid set of values that he ran his life and his trade by, one of which was to never hurt innocent people for his own ends. Chet was therefore shocked to find him in the middle of a terrorist action, doing the very thing he had sworn he would never do.

"Wouldn't we all like to know that sometimes," Clay replied, in the same creeping, silk-smooth tone.

"What are you doing here?" Chet asked, stunned into incredulous inaction by the sudden appearance of the bounty hunter.

"Protecting these people. Unlike you," Cole replied icily.

"Protecting…" Heywood started.

"Yes, protecting," Clay interrupted, "Protecting these innocent people from scum terrorists who only want to use them for their own personal good," he shouted angrily, "And I would never have guessed _you'd_ be one of them,"

"I'd…be one of what?" Heywood asked.

"We were sent here by direct contract from the Shadow Front to protect these people. Your organization, detective, your own men _set you up_. We'd gotten word of a splinter group, one who would use their authority and standing in the Imperial justice system for their own ends. They asked me to lend support, which I did. I just never suspected _you_ would be one of these cowards, these conspirators," Clay said, a mixture of anger, disgust, and disappointment in his voice.

Before Heywood could reply or even try to make sense of Clay's words, another man walked up behind the pale mercenary. He was an older man, with gray hair and a wide, squareish face that sported a neatly trimmed goatee.

"Ahh, good," he said, stopping beside Clay and sizing Heywood up, "We've got ourselves a prisoner,"

At these words, Heywood steadied himself, tightening his grip on the pistol in his hand, ready to raise it in an instant, quickly going through the motions in his head, the trained reflex action of aiming and sighting the weapon, targeting center of mass, "You can try," he said defiantly, slowly and deliberately bringing his hand up and wrapping it around the sidearm, ready to fire at a moments notice.

"I don't think that'll be necessary," the man said. Suddenly and without warning, weapons appeared in both Clay and the newcomer's hands; compact, efficient Lachrymosa LA90 'Red Orchid' submachine guns, their quadruple-stacked 50 round magazines of 9 millimeter slugs promising swift retaliation.

"Make this easy," Clay said, holding out his hand, 'Give me the gun,"

"What, so you can kill me?" Heywood laughed. If he was going to die, he was going to die fighting, "You're just going to have to shoot me then,"

"Chet," Clay began exasperatedly, "If I wanted to kill you I'd have done so already. I've had about fifty chances to kill you over the past few months. Remember your waiter at the Horses Mouth? 'Total comes to seven fifty even, sir. Have a good day'," he said, in that same smooth, accentless voice that had greeted Heywood's ears at the underground bar almost three months earlier.

"I knew it. But how did you…no," Heywood said, knowing the answer before Clay gave it.

"These,' Clay said, reaching into his glass coat and pulling out several color-coded syringe pens.

Heywood knew what they were. He had used them often. They were known as Temporary Pigment Recoloration Hypos, or TPRHs. They worked by, through some chemical method unknown to Heywood, changing the pigment coloring of a person's skin or hair temporarily. The Shadow Front special-issued them for certain missions, when an operative would need to change his appearance temporarily, to blend in to a certain group without being noticed.

"Surrender and you have my word you'll live," Clay said, raising his weapon, " Now. Last chance,"

Detective Heywood had no choice, slowly, he handed his 9mm to Clay, who also took his revolver from its holster and the communications link from his pocket. He looked Chet in the eyes for a moment as he frisked him. Heywood felt as though his skull was being drilled into by Clay's piercing stare.

When Clay had finished disarming Chet, the other man grabbed Heywood and manhandled him off down the concourse.

"Don't you hurt him now," Clay called, "I gave him my word,"

"Oh I won't," the man said, smirking.

The terrorist took Heywood further down the corridor and pushed him through a side door. As Heywood was shoved through the entranceway, he could see that the room they were in was a cleaning servitor recharging room, with racks of limp and charging servitors hanging on circular racks encased by glass.

The man suddenly threw Heywood to the floor. He stood over him, leering contemptuously down at him with his crinkly yellow eyes.

"You know," he began, "You Shadow Front boys really are pathetic. You know what I mean? All that crap about helping people, about protecting the citizens of the Imperium from harm and all that moralizing drivel. You really need to…open your eyes,"

He reached down and picked up Heywood by his collar. "I am declaring war on the Shadow Front, one person at a time, and if you want something done, you've just got to do it yourself," he leered, tightening his grip on Heywood's collar, "You see I know what it's all about. I understand. There can be no peace, and all you can do is try to profit from the chaos as much as you can. But its so very hard to do that when we've got your pathetic excuse for mercenary organization running around, achieving 'Peace, one contract at a time'," he said mockingly, quoting an unofficial Shadow Front slogan.

'Well, it's so very hard to achieve that peace, when we have scum like you always disrupting it. So that's why we've declared war on _you_, one cowardly terrorist scumbag at a time," Heywood jerked his hand free and punched low at the man's stomach.

The man doubled up in pain, but recovered. Heywood blocked a high punch sent his way and went for a low kick, trying to sweep the man's legs out from under him. He dodged, coming in with a right hook that Heywood deflected. Chet then lashed out with a mid level punch to the man's ribcage. It connected and the man doubled over for a second time, wheezing. Seizing his chance, Heywood grappled the man and threw him, sending him flying towards the heavy servitor racks. His face connected with one of the support poles with a sickening crack, and he staggered, his nose badly broken.

Suddenly, without warning, the man crouched down and pulled a small hideaway laspistol from an ankle rig.

"End of the line, detective," he leered through the blood gushing from his shattered face as he leveled the small energy weapon at Heywood.

There were two loud bangs and the man convulsed. He slumped over and rolled onto his back, gasping.

Cole Clay stood in the doorway, holding Heywood's Lachrymosa XCP, with which he had apparently shot the man. Clay strode over to the gasping terrorist. He aimed the weapon down at the figure.

"You lied to me," he said, his voice icy, "And lying, is a very bad thing,"

A shot rang out.

Clay turned to Heywood. "Looks like I was the one set up," he said.

As Heywood stood up, dusting himself off, Clay raised his hands, "If I can say one thing in my defense," Clay said, "Their documents looked official,"

It took Heywood a few seconds to register what Clay was talking about. "That's because they probably were," Chet replied, "There was a break in on New Vista. Apparently, these guys were responsible," he continued, gesturing at the dead terrorist on the ground.

"Now Chet, you know I would never have taken the contract if I'd known who they were," Clay said, "I've served you guys before. I wouldn't just turn on you like that,"

"I know. Hey, you saved my life. That's proof enough for me. They had quite the kit here; gene coded weapons, a resident tech priest, the works,"

"Ohh yeah, Tech Adept Verals," Clay scoffed, "Tech-fundamentalist jerk if I ever saw one. Nearly had a heart attack when he saw this," Clay held open his coat to reveal a hard round pistol in a belt holster, and what appeared to be a Koma Defense-made lasgun with a telescoping wire stock. It also appeared as though Clay had taken a power saw to the muzzle, removing most of the barrel ahead of the magazine well, inside which a compact twenty shot power cell had been inserted. The weapon reclined in a cross-draw holster that looked like it had originally been designed for a bolt pistol.

He let the jacket clink back down over the weapon and examined Heywood's 9mm. "XCP, huh? Great little sidearm. I've used a couple myself, although I prefer this one," He gestured to his pistol sidearm, a thin, squareish handgun with a grayish slide and frame, "Argnosy Arms Model 1 Navy. Great little .50 cal. Seven shots in a mag. Thin, compact, powerful. Anyway, that's what I use. But," he said, shrugging and handing the XCP back to Chet, "To each his own,"

He also returned Heywood's communicator and revolver. "Ahh, Leone G20," he commented as he passed the revolver to Heywood, "I love this model. Saved my life more times then I'd care to remember. You have good taste,"

"Thanks," Heywood said, accepting the weapons back and holstering them.

Clay crouched down and checked the body of the terrorist, frisking him in a similar fashion to the way he'd frisked Heywood. He scooped up the hideaway laspistol and pocketed it. He also searched the man's trouser pockets, pocketing a few extra las cells and a leather bound wallet.

"You know, doing things like that," Heywood said, gesturing down at the body that Cole was crouching over, "All this shooting people in the back and running around with terrorists. You really aren't assisting the disillusion of the evil albino stereotype."

"He was trying to kill you," Clay said, raising his hands in incredulous defense, "I wasn't about to let him cap you in the face while I was standing right there, and I explained the situation to you. If you don't believe me, then just say so and arrest me right now. You _know_ me. You know I'd never sink that low,"

"Yes, yes, I know. These men were good. They were very good. Up until this attack, we had no leads on them at all, probably because they were masquerading as Shadow Front. We wound never think to double-check our own organization. We believed all of the documents had been recovered. Apparently, they weren't," Heywood said, "And besides, as I said before, you saved my life,"

Clay stood up and pulled a pack of Iho sticks and a silver igniter out of his pocket. He thumbed open the hinged top of the lighter and brought the dancing flame up to the tip of the short, white cigarette. When it had ignited, Clay flicked the lid closed on the flame and replaced the lighter and pack into his glass stormcoat. Cole Clay had a reputation as a stalwart smoker. It was joked among those who knew him that he was in a race, to see which killed him first, his job or his habit. Clay insisted, however, that he was trying to quit. However, he had been 'trying to quit' for sixty-seven years, with no success.

Clay took a long drag on the Iho stick and exhaled the pale whitish smoke, twirling the thin white tube between his fingers like one would lace a coin or a pencil back and forth, ash falling like snow from the cigarette's glowing tip, "Now detective, since I saved your life. You owe me. Now you do one thing for me, and we're square."

"What?" Heywood asked.

"I'm the man you never saw," Clay said with a sly smile.

And with that, he turned on his heel, and strode from the room.

Epilogue: Six Months Later

Detective Heywood squinted and brought his arm up to shield his eyes from the suddenly bright light. He was standing at the railing of a long promenade deck, staring out at the swirling clouds and the ship traffic buzzing like flies in the stark morning sunlight. The massive bulk of New Central City, one of the planet Solarikus's famous hovering cities; ancient, mushroom-shaped structures built thousands of years earlier by the original colonists, when the planet was still being terraformed, stretched out behind him. The cities were held in place far above the surface of the planet, hovering eternally in the clouds by way of massive antigravity generators that extended below the city like a mushroom's stalk. The cities had come back into importance relatively recently, when a large meteor had impacted the planet six hundred years earlier, covering the lower atmosphere in a lethal combination of harmful gasses. The surviving population had been quarantined either underground, in cities at the tops of mountains, originally used to mine precious metals from the planet's steep, mineral-rich summits, or on these ancient floating cities, still in place after thousands of years. Atmospheric cleanup, meanwhile, was steadily cleaning the air below them, refining it back into a breathable gas once more, ready for the eventual repopulation of the surface.

Heywood took another bite of the rather dry breadstick that he'd bought from a food purveyor inside, swallowing the pasty bread and tossing the rest over the edge, watching it spin down through the drifting cloud cover toward the planet's surface. It was a much more entertaining in this way, Heywood thought to himself.

After his near fatal 'duel' with the terrorist in the mall, he had rejoined his team, who had secured and evacuated the hostages. Apparently, one of the squads had secured a prisoner, who, under interrogation, revealed the location of their cell's headquarters, which had been promptly raided. Evidently, the group had planned to lure the Shadow Front into a trap, using the false papers obtained from the New Vistian HQ to hire mercenaries to fight for them, Clay being one of them, under the guise of a protection detail for the 'terrorist targeted' executives. Heywood had recounted his capture and battle with the terrorist, who had turned out to be the leader of the operation, to his team, who were suitably impressed. He failed to mention Clay, however, and instead had said that he was snuck up upon while investigating movement further down the corridor.

He turned on his heel and walked back into the shuttle terminal. Early morning flyer traffic was arriving, and the amber-lit interior was already filling up with commuters and traders, eager to start the day. Heywood continued for the interior of the city, walking along the wide hallway toward the exit. He was almost at the entrance to the city proper when a voice called his name.

"Detective Heywood,"

Heywood turned. He saw a figure reclining in the shadows underneath an escalator, the glowing tip of an Iho stick visible in the gloom, the light dancing and flickering in the semi-darkness.

"Good to see you again, detective. Didn't think I'd run into you here," the light said. Heywood recognized the water-smooth, drawling voice immediately. Sure enough, Cole Clay strode out from the darkness, taking a final draw on his Iho stick and flicking it away, where it missed an ashtray in the corner and instead bounced onto the ground and smoldered out. A tiny sweeping servitor zipped by on its treads and scooped it up.

"I never got to thank you for covering for me back on Blackfield," Clay continued, "I am eternally grateful to you for that,"

"Well," Heywood answered, "you did save my life. I keep promises,"

"That's a good thing," Clay said, leaning against the escalator's side casually, "Something to… excuse me for a moment," he interrupted himself, throwing his arm out nonchalantly...

…to catch a man riding the escalator down square in the face with the collapsible shock maul that had suddenly materialized in his outstretched hand. The man crashed to the ground, electricity arching across his chest and around his spasming legs. Clay stepped over the side of the escalator and handcuffed the man with lightweight plastic cuffs produced from his long glasscoat.

"As I was saying," he continued conversationally, as though he hadn't just clubbed a man in the face with an electric stun-baton, "That's something to be proud of,"

"Whahoa. Nice one," Heywood said, gesturing at the figure now cuffed at the pale bounty hunter's combat-booted feet.

"Thanks. Been tracking this one for a while, down on the surface, "Clay answered, "You know out west it's starting to rain harder then ever? Atmosphere's taking on its own cleaning now,"

"Great," Heywood answered.

"Great for you, maybe, but I got poured on while I was down there. Six hundred years worth of rain, it seemed like. Roads turned to rivers. At least it was cloudy, though," he said, "I like cloudy, easier on the eyes. Always been real sensitive to light. Bright sunlight's a killer. Even though, better than being soaked," he said, sighing.

'Oh, yeah?" Heywood replied.

"Ahh well…." Clay trailed off, "Rain makes you think."

Clay slung the man's unconscious body over his shoulder and turned to Heywood, surveying him with his piercing violet eyes, his gaze, once again, making Heywood feel as though his skull was being drilled into, "That terrorist was right, you know. There can be no peace. It's just an impossibility, not until the end of time. It's a tragedy, but it's true. We try, but…" he trailed off, "All you can do is try to help as many as you can, wherever you can. All the same," he said, "Pray for that peace. I know I do,"

He turned back to look at Heywood, pausing at the door to the street, still lugging the captured man on his shoulder, 'Oh yes," he chuckled, "I pray,"

Then he turned, stepping out onto the amber-lit city street, and was gone.

The End

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Well, that was the story. Hope you enjoyed it.

The name of the gangbeat band, Magnum Flinch, is a reference to the weaponry term "magnum flinch" in which a shooter, anticipating the heavy recoil of a large magnum round, may, while pulling the trigger, flinch, throwing his aim off; a magnum flinch.

Also, the song mentioned in the gunship scene is meant to sound similar to Stevie Ray Vaughn's cover of "Voodoo Chile".

I can sympathize with Clay's light sensitivity, as I am incredibly sensitive to bright light myself. That's why I like cloudy or rainy days best. Bright, cloudless sunlight is like knives to my eyes.

Credits (the characters and the actors they'd be played by):

(Music: Get Dis Money – Slum Village)

Detective Charles "Chet" Heywood: Matthew Settle

Detective Jacob "Holy" Coylin: Hugh Laurie

Detective (GCMSgt) Chuck Maci: Daniel Craig

Matthew Vinesmith: Matt Smith, my uncle, who I promised a cameo in one of my stories.

Cole Clay: No one in particular. (Couldn't find a suitable actor, although Eric Bana in Black Hawk Down always reminds me of Clay.)

So, read and review please.

Update Ticker: corrected some errors and reworked some of the dialogue to flow better.

Peace out and God bless.


End file.
